


when i turn jet black and you show off your light, i live to let you shine

by shoulderbladesarewings



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (kind of), Angst, Artist Zayn, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Fights, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Painting, Performance Art, Sad, Singer Harry, Unrequited Love, larry stylinson - Freeform, ziam, zouis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 15:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3615159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoulderbladesarewings/pseuds/shoulderbladesarewings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn paints and dates Liam, Harry sings and marries Louis, Harry leaves on tour and Louis comes to Zayn for comfort. Zayn finds a project to keep him occupied, but when old wounds are opened their friendship begins to look a lot more like love.</p><p>OR</p><p>Louis is the sky. Or maybe it's Harry. Someone is the sky, at any rate.</p><p>here's the playlist http://8tracks.com/kiki-d/i-live-to-let-you-shine</p>
            </blockquote>





	when i turn jet black and you show off your light, i live to let you shine

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my angel Zayn, who deserves the best things in life and who I will always, always love and admire

                                                                               

 

Louis shows up, as he always does, unannounced, in his faded grey trackies and a black beanie he’s had since they were sixteen.

   Zayn’s been expecting him for a while. Harry left three days ago, off on another world tour with White Eskimo, and Zayn knows Louis hasn’t made many friends since they moved out here to London, almost certainly none he could call exclusively his own.

   But Zayn is his, and he knows that, so it was only a matter of time, really. They’re connected, not least by the watercolour tattoos sprawling across their arms and chests, painted by Zayn’s hand, far too many to be healthy or, if they’re being honest, appropriate. It took Zayn a long time to explain to Liam exactly why about three quarters of his skin are coated with colours complementary to those inked on Louis – and he had eventually had to concede that, yes, there was a possibility that, long ago, he’d been in love with Louis Tomlinson.

   But Harry and Louis had been together since the stars first made their home in the sky – which, if we’re being pedantic, was around the time of their seventeenth birthdays, give or take a couple of months. But, given that they’re twenty-one now, it was more than enough.

   Nevertheless, Zayn is glad to see him.

   He’s also wearing a gas mask.

   He gestures soundlessly for Louis to come in, and points him toward the sitting room, before running off to close the door to his Space, as he calls it, removing his mask once it is safely shut.

   The entire flat smells slightly of paint fumes, but that’s normal. Zayn is – and he still can’t believe he gets to say this with a straight face; with actual credibility – an _artist,_ after all.

   Louis bellows something crass that is clear code for _get in here and hold me,_ so that’s exactly what Zayn does, not even bothering to put the kettle on. There’ll be time for tea later. Right now he needs to make Louis feel like he exists.

   Louis’s existential relationship with himself is complicated at the moment, Zayn knows. The problem lies in Harry’s lyrics – but there’ll be time for that later too. For now, he contents himself with folding himself onto the couch beside Louis and putting his arms around him.

   Louis half-heartedly mumbles ‘Gerroff’, but Zayn hasn’t known him for nearly a decade for nothing and he only takes it as his cue to hold him tighter, although he can’t help being conscious of the spray paint on his shirt that is now bleeding into Louis’s, as surely as the ink on Louis’s right arm reflects off of his like sunlight on the sea.

   Louis traces the waves of colour in the crook of Zayn’s elbow; the tiny crooked triangles meant to be birds. ‘Tell me why.’

   Louis’s never asked for information. He orders it, in the same flat, detached way a rich man would call for water at a restaurant: like it is the least he is owed for how much he has worked in his life.

   But it’s different today. He knows exactly why Zayn inked this tattoo – left-handed, he might proudly add – and why he has an identical one, except that the sky is pink instead of blue and the birds are flying north: up his arm to get at his eyes, where the blue is. Louis knows, and he needs Zayn to remind him why.

   So Zayn tells him a story about two teenage boys with soft hair and sparkly eyes, lying on their backs and staring up at the sun, and how the dark-haired boy dreams of charcoal pencils and expensive brushes, while the golden-haired one sees his name in lights and on everyone’s lips, as loud and bright and beautiful as the sun.

   ‘The sky was hope,’ Zayn concludes, and even though he’s got almost everything he ever wanted he still hopes: hopes it will be enough for the boy beside him.

   ‘I don’t see the sky anymore,’ Louis murmurs. ‘They keep the curtains closed so the cameras can’t see inside.’

   ‘You do see the sky,’ Zayn whispers back. ‘It’s here.’ He strokes his forearm. ‘And here.’ He taps the edge of his eye. ‘It was always you. You were my sky.’

   Louis shakes his head with a wry smile. ‘Come off it, Zayn. _He’s_ the sky. Harry. I’m just the ground waiting for him to come back.’

   ‘Wrong,’ Zayn tells him gently. ‘The sky never leaves.’

   Louis sighs heavily. ‘Fine. You be the fucking sky then, I don’t care. But it’s not me.’

   And Zayn doesn’t really know how to respond to that.

   ‘Finish the story,’ Louis says eventually, sounding resigned and weary. ‘Tell me what happened to the boys.’

   ‘Louis –’

   ‘Tell it or I will.’

   So Zayn tells it, because he knows that Louis would never be able to get through it without bursting into tears. ‘Then another boy came along, and he had the sea in his eyes and when he looked at the golden-haired boy he saw all the sky he needed.’ He can’t stop himself from adding, a little bitterly, ‘The dark-haired boy never stopped looking up long enough to notice that the sky was right beside him all along.’

   Louis elbows him. ‘M’not the _fucking_ sky.’

   ‘It’s my story,’ Zayn protests.

   Louis grumbles, but makes no further argument.

   Zayn tells him about how when the green-eyed boy and the golden-haired boy touched, stars shifted into constellations and planets aligned, bringing good luck to all they met. How the golden-haired boy waited for his wings, singing and acting and dancing until he grew thin and tired, still aching to touch the sky. How everyone thought the green-eyed boy was clinging on to him because he’d never be able to fly himself – but all the while, he’d been scraping stardust off the golden-haired boy in his sleep, which he swallowed and then spat out as songs about honey and salt water and angels, and how everyone loved the songs so, so much –

   ‘But no one loved the golden-haired boy anymore,’ Louis murmurs.

   Zayn’s throat feels tight. Maybe he shouldn’t have started this. Maybe it’s time to stop. ‘It’s kind of late now, Lou, let me call you a cab –’

   ‘You didn’t tell me what happened to the dark-haired boy,’ he points out, expressionlessly. ‘You can’t leave it unfinished.’

   Zayn touches his hand softly. ‘But it’s not finished.’

   He smiles, his mouth wobbly and his eyes bright. ‘Yes it is, Zayn. It’s a happy ending. Tell me yours.’ He falters. ‘His. Whatever. Please.’

   So Zayn does, because he’s always had this chronic problem of not being able to say no to anyone, least of all Louis. ‘The dark-haired boy got everything he hoped for.’ He hears his voice break, although he tries to keep his tone light. ‘Except the sky.’

   Louis rolls his eyes. ‘What’s Liam, then, O genius of the laboured metaphor?’

   Zayn blushes a little. Liam. He’s not the sky. Star isn’t right either. He’s stoic, dependable. Stars are dead by the time we see them from Earth. Liam is everything he seems to be. Simple, sweet, safe. ‘The grass.’

   Louis splutters, but then his face softens. ‘Alright, I see that. So the dark-haired boy grew wings but then he fell in love with the grass and decided that the sky was overrated.’ He scrunches his face up. ‘And tired. Is it OK if I sleep here? Or is Liam coming over tonight?’

   ‘I’m going to his,’ Zayn says apologetically. ‘But you’re welcome to stay here. Just _promise_ you’ll put on the mask if you go in my Space.’

   Louis gives him a lazy thumbs-up, and Zayn kisses his forehead before he stands. ‘You sure you’ll be alright?’

   ‘Go to your boyfriend, you idiot.’

   And Zayn’s Zayn and Louis’s Louis, so he goes.

 

*

Being an established artist has its upsides. For one, Zayn can get away with showing up to his romantic dinner date wearing a paint-stained T-shirt and jeans with the knees worn out.

   For another, he is in the process of putting together a performance piece for an exhibit at the National Gallery.

   He’s already decided that Louis is going to be the model. It worries him how listless his friend has become, rattling around in Harry’s enormous house, more often than not with only the housekeeper for company, bored and unfulfilled.

   Zayn will never forgive Harry for what he did to Louis. Louis was God’s gift to the world, and Harry spoilt the surprise with his stupid fucking lyrics. _Saltwater Boy,_ his first single, skyrocketed when they were eighteen, and by the time the world was introduced to Louis it was on his arm, and his beauty and his light paled in comparison to the mermaid Harry had described in the song, whose shining scales put the sun to shame and whose voice had coaxed the clouds to cry salt tears. No one could compete with that. Not even Louis. So he stopped trying. He hid his face from Harry’s fans whenever he could, never speaking to them; never acknowledging their anger or contempt. He stopped going to auditions after a director recognised him and sneered something about trophy wives. He dedicated his entire life to loving Harry, because Harry had left him no other choice.

   ‘Zayn?’

   He comes back, smiling at Liam across the table. He’s gone all out tonight, with rose petals and ridiculously expensive red wine, which Zayn knows he won’t let him pay for even though they both know he makes far more money than Liam, who’s a PE teacher at the local school where Louis worked for a little while before he lost all interest in anything that had ever made him happy.

   To this day, Zayn doesn’t know why Louis got the urge to introduce them. He and Liam are hardly obvious soulmates. Zayn hates sport while Liam’s eyes glaze over when he so much as glances at a painting, and Liam’s fit but almost intimidatingly so, far more suited to some baby-faced twink with a daddy kink or an equally buff athlete. Not Zayn, with his spider-skinny legs and his head in the clouds. Louis and Harry always rave about how good they look together, but Zayn honestly doesn’t see it, even though they get on perfectly well and they do admittedly have amazing sex. They’re not intricate puzzle pieces, not like Harry and Louis. They’re more like regular straight-edged rectangular blocks that line up perfectly well but don’t have the capacity to actually slot. The surface shakes and they split apart.

   Right, now he’s just being maudlin. Stop. Focus on Liam. ‘This is really lovely, babe, thank you.’

   Liam shrugs, smiling. ‘It’s my pleasure. How’s your piece coming?’

   ‘Not brilliantly,’ Zayn admits. ‘I’m a bit stuck for ideas. But I know what the theme is. Love.’

   Liam’s face breaks into a massive grin – and Zayn realises his mistake. ‘It’s not…I mean…it’s about Louis.’

   The corners of Liam’s mouth turn down. Zayn’s stomach clenches with guilt. He knows it’s long past time for him to tell Liam he loves him.

   He also knows about the diamond ring in the back pocket of Liam’s best jeans; found it one day while searching for a T-shirt to steal and nearly had a heart attack. He hasn’t mentioned it, out of equal parts hope and fear. They’ve been dating for nine months. How do you go from that to marriage?

   Louis feels the same about Harry’s burning desire for a kid. He’s nowhere near ready to be a father, may never be and Zayn certainly isn’t (since he figures for Liam that would be the next logical step from marriage). They smoke cigarettes and weed that stay on their breath for days at a time, and wear jackets with sharpened studs on the pockets, and never look where they’re going.

   Not that Zayn’s had the heart to tell Liam that.

   Louis hasn’t told Harry either.

   He really has to stop thinking about Louis. They’re not seventeen anymore. Zayn missed his chance; hadn’t even got up the courage to come out by the time Harry announced his intentions to ask Louis to the school dance. Zayn brought his cousin Perrie and stared over her shoulder the entire night, to where Louis and Harry waltzed while Harry poured poetry in his ear until Zayn felt sticky in sympathy. They disappeared halfway through and three hours later Louis called him from a hotel landline and treated him to a jubilant rendition of the Lonely Island’s ‘I Just Had Sex’. Because it was Louis and of course he did.

   ‘Louis and Harry,’ he clarifies quickly, in case that wasn’t clear. ‘It’s sort of an aesthetic exploration of their relationship.’

   Liam nods solemnly, but he’s obviously lost and still a little hurt.

   Zayn decides to change the subject. He does that a lot around Liam, always a little afraid of boring or offending him, which he doesn’t feel conscious of around many people so, he reasons, he must like him. Hell, maybe he does love him and he’s just too scared to say it. Louis was like that with Harry for a while, before everything blew up and he had to say it – had to scream it from the skyline to compensate for all Harry had given him. Zayn hopes he never feels like that. Love shouldn’t be exhausting or imbalanced or painful. He just wants someone he can hang out with, and talk to, and touch.

   The thing is, that’s Louis. Save for certain aspects of the last part.

   He gets to touch Liam completely without restriction though, and he takes advantage of that now, sliding their chairs together and kissing him on the mouth. ‘I’ll make a piece for you one day,’ he promises, painfully aware that he’s offering up a consolation prize. ‘Lou…he needs this right now. he doesn’t have what I have.’

   He means agency, fame, freedom, but he lets Liam think that he means him, confirming it in the way he slides his hands inside the other boy’s shirt. Liam doesn’t feel like Louis, hard muscle where he’s soft skin, but Zayn doesn’t mind. Just because he’s in love with Louis doesn’t mean he can’t love Liam too.

   He’s still learning how, is all.

 

*

When Zayn gets back, Louis is asleep in his bed, sprawled all the way across it, which Zayn takes as a sign that he is expecting to be woken up and so after a little thought, he leans over him and blows gently but firmly into his face.

   Louis twitches, mumbles something, then grumpily opens one eye. ‘How very dare you, tosser.’

   ‘Shift,’ Zayn says teasingly, nudging him aside so he can climb under the covers too. He can feel the exact places Louis’s limbs were, warm through his clothes. ‘Great artists gotta sleep too, you know.’

   ‘I thought you were all about burning the midnight oil?’

   ‘Let’s just say Liam tired me out.’

   He only says it to get Louis to shut up (he may love him, but there is very little in this world more important to Zayn than sleep) – but really he should have predicted the exact opposite effect. _‘Oooh.’_

   And now the sky is fully awake, which means that all hope is officially lost. Zayn will be lucky if he gets two hours. He gives in to the inevitable and sits up. ‘OK. I am at your disposal. What would you like to do?’

   Louis shrugs, closing his eyes with a smirk. ‘Sleep?’

   Zayn hits him with a pillow. ‘Pick an activity or you’re sleeping on the sofa.’

   Louis sighs theatrically – then grins. ‘Space. I want to watch you paint.’

   ‘OK, tiger,’ Zayn replies, ruffling his hair as he pulls back the duvet. ‘Let’s go.’

   Zayn’s Space is his favourite place in the world. Louis’s the only person he’s ever let inside, even counting Liam. The reason Louis is allowed is because the walls are already full of him: his face beams, laughs, cries and yells from every angle. Louis always says it’s like staring into a million funhouse mirrors. _And it’s nice,_ he once added quietly, examining a painting of himself leaning against a lamppost with his arms folded and his tongue in his cheek, _to know what you look like living. Hardly anyone ever gets to see themselves like that._

   It’s not just paintings of Louis, of course. Zayn primarily draws comic book figures, with jagged edges and wide mouths and superpowers who beat up bad guys and scream into mirrors, worlds away from Harry’s cute little ballads about fairies and princes. Once, when Louis was inadvisably drunk, he whispered in Zayn’s ear _I prefer yours. His are so fucking sweet they make my teeth hurt._

   Zayn’s held on so tight to that. It’s one of the few things that makes him believe there might still be hope for Louis after all.

   Before they enter the room Zayn hands Louis a mask, but he won’t take it, complaining that he can’t breathe inside plastic and rubber. Used to the argument, Zayn fetches him a cool, dampened flannel instead, and when Louis gives him a sulky look he presses it to the other boy’s nose and mouth, the only time he’ll ever let himself touch Louis’s face. ‘I’m not gonna let you suffocate,’ he murmurs.

   ‘Maybe I want to,’ Louis mumbles back.

   Zayn pretends not to hear, pulling away. Louis’s always threatening death these days. To take him seriously would only make it worse. He opts instead for diversionary tactics. ‘Do you want to help me?’

   Louis nods, expression hidden under the cloth, and so Zayn drags out one of his bigger easels and two palettes, handing one to Louis.

   Louis starts with the pale blue, covering his side with the colour. Zayn pretends to be sketching out a supervillain, with spirals for hair and glittery green eyes, but he’s really just watching him, wincing every time what little light there is in the room (Louis steals Harry’s silk scarves when they fight and gives them to Zayn, so he drapes them around the lamps for ambience) catches the gold band on his ring finger.

   Louis never meant to get married. During Harry’s first international tour, when he left Louis behind to sing about his eyes to a billion strangers, Louis got fed up with the tabloids snapping him standing beside pretty people and speculating on _Is this Styles’ next Saltwater Boy?_ so he flew down to America to break up with him. For three days, Zayn heard nothing, and he let himself think, hope, that now, finally, something could happen between them, that things might fall into the way they were supposed to be. But then Louis showed up on his doorstep one night with a ring, a dazed expression, and a copy of Harry’s unreleased album which, Zayn thought, said all that it really needed to, so they stayed up all night in his bedroom and he held Louis while he howled, and in the morning he was red-eyed but completely over the moon. It was as if the night had never happened, and it still is, really, except for those rare days when Louis will break down again and sob about dreams and promises and loneliness and Zayn pours it all into his paintings because it’s simply too much for even the two of them to share. And that works. It’s why he got famous, and he’s not sure why Louis seems to mind that less than he does that Harry did, except that sixty words are a brutal way to be summed up in but a _palette –_ a palette is everything in the world and Zayn tells him all the time that it’s still not enough. Harry seems to think his creations are more than Louis even deserves.

   Louis takes a pen and flicks three open triangles across the paint: birds. Then he puts the pen down. ‘Self-portrait,’ he says sardonically.

   Unable to talk properly through the mask, Zayn takes his hand and pulls him from the room. When they’re outside he removes the cloth, frees his own face and quietly asks ‘Do you miss him?’

   Louis breathes out heavily. ‘I don’t even know who he is anymore.’

   ‘What do you mean?’

   He brushes the back of his hand over his eyes, leaving a slight smudge of blue that makes it look like they’ve bled their pigment into his skin in the absence of tears. ‘I turned on the TV and saw him on a talk show yesterday. Do you remember when we were teenagers? He was this dorky, heart-eyed, curly kid falling over himself to make me see him. He got fucking _dizzy_ around me; I used to have to steady him when we kissed. The interviewer asked after me and just said _Yeah, he’s fine. We’re very happy._ Just before he left, we had this massive fight – I ripped the sleeve off one of his shirts screaming for him to leave me alone. You know why? He wanted me to get a tattoo of one of his lyrics. Said he was sick of seeing you whenever he looked at me.’

   ‘Really?’

   ‘Yes. I told him he’d already taken my body away from me and given it to the entire world fucking gift-wrapped and your tattoos have nothing to do with possession because unlike his stuff they’re beautiful and they actually mean something to me.’

   Zayn winces, even as Christmas lights flare up in his heart. ‘What did he say?’

   He smiles slightly, his lips thin and hard. ‘That I was living in his house wearing his clothes eating his food and what had you ever done for me except smear yourself all over my skin – God, he made it sound so _dirty,_ like he really thought we’d do that to him – and that if I was going to walk around looking like someone’s fetishist canvas in front of his fans then I might as well leave. That was when I tore the shirt. Told him to fuck off and not touch me until he could appreciate that I don’t belong to him.’

   ‘I’m proud of you,’ Zayn says softly.

   He shakes his head. ‘He’s right. Not about you, that was out of order, but…me. What have I ever done? Maybe I do belong to him.’

   _‘No.’_ Zayn touches his hand, taking a step closer. ‘You belong to you.’ Is this the right time to ask him? Maybe it is. At least it will give him a sense of purpose. ‘Listen, Lou, I’ve been meaning to ask…I’ve been commissioned to put on a performance piece at the National Gallery. I…thought you might want to be in it.’

   Louis tenses, his fists clenching as he pulls away. ‘Zayn –’

   ‘No one will know it’s you,’ he promises. ‘I won’t put your name on the flyer if you don’t want, and you’re probably gonna spend the entire thing covered in paint and paper, and…well, I thought you might like it. You were always supposed to have everyone watching you.’

   Louis looks away. ‘You don’t want me.’

   ‘I’ve never wanted anyone else,’ Zayn says honestly. ‘Come on.’ He hesitates, unwilling to take advantage of his friend’s weakness, but needing him to see how good this will be for him. ‘Everyone will love you.’

   Silence. But Zayn can see the effect his words have had. Louis looks like he’s been offered the universe in a glass snowglobe. ‘Do you really think that?’

   ‘I know it,’ Zayn murmurs. He leaves a pause before his final argument, having read once that it would make it more effective. ‘Lou, I need you.’

   Louis smiles, as if despite himself. ‘Well. If you _need_ me.’

   ‘I do.’

   ‘OK.’ He runs a hand through his hair, more blue coming away in the gold. ‘OK. So what’s the plan?’

   Zayn shrugs. ‘I have no idea.’

   He lets out a short laugh. ‘You’re brilliant, mate.’ He stretches, yawns. ‘Can we go to bed now?’

   ‘Sure,’ Zayn says softly, and he puts his arm around Louis’s waist as they walk down the hallway to his room. ‘Listen,’ he tells him sincerely, ‘if it ever came to that, you leaving him –’

   ‘Him kicking me out,’ Louis corrects flatly.

   ‘Whatever, you know you could always stay here, right? For as long as you need.’

   ‘Don’t be stupid, Zayn. The only reason I live with mooching off of Harry is that I can give him something in return, even if it’s just sex. I couldn’t –’

   ‘You inspired my entire collection,’ Zayn tells him firmly. ‘You’re the reason I’m successful.’

   ‘No I’m not,’ he mumbles, letting his fringe fall over his face. ‘I’m not a mermaid. I’m not the sky. I’m not a painting. I’m just me.’

   _And I love you._

   But that’s not what Louis needs to hear right now. Zayn settles for saying ‘And you’re my best friend’, before he settles him into his side of the bed and slips in beside him.

   In the night, he wakes up to Louis snuggled into his chest, their legs tangled together like crossed fingers: good luck. He know he shouldn’t, but he nuzzles his hair with his chin, like he’s seen Harry to do him when they fall asleep on sofas or carpets, and he swears he hear him purr.

   ‘I love you,’ he whispers, now that he can, and although he thinks for a second that the sky’s going to fall in, it doesn’t. They’re safe. Louis’s here with him and they’re safe. It’s that thought that sends him soundly back to sleep.

 

*

 

‘Beautiful, innit?’

   ‘It’s pretty amazing,’ Zayn agrees. He’s met Niall, the cute blond assigned to help him set up his exhibit at the gallery, a couple of times, but this is the first time he’s seen his assigned space. It’s completely empty, all whitewashed walls and polished mahogany floorboards, but all that space is only giving Zayn ideas.

   It helps even more to see Louis standing in the middle of it, looking like a lost angel wandered out of a Renaissance painting next door.

   Niall gives him a quick, unobtrusive once-over. ‘This your model, then?’

   ‘The term is muse,’ Zayn tells him teasingly.

   He rolls his eyes. ‘You artists. Pretentious twats, right Louis?’

   Louis jumps a little at the direct address, and nods vaguely. Zayn’s worried he might be a little overwhelmed, so he politely asks Niall if he’d mind getting them some tea. The boy’s off like a shot, leaving them alone, and he gently touches the small of Louis’s back. ‘You OK?’

   Louis’s voice is very small. ‘I don’t like…people seeing me.’

   ‘I know, mate,’ Zayn says calmly, even though his heart is breaking a bit. ‘But Niall’s really chilled out –’

   ‘Not just him, I mean…they’re all going to be looking at me, Zayn, they’re all –’

   ‘I told you, paint and paper.’

   ‘What if they laugh at me?’ His hands go to his hair, as if with the intent to tear it out. ‘What if they laugh at me…and laugh at Harry, what if he finds out, he’ll be so angry…’

   ‘Hey,’ Zayn cuts across him, turning him around so they’re face to face. ‘This is not about Harry. It’s about you.’

   ‘Same thing.’

   ‘No it’s not. You don’t have to do it, of course you don’t, but I’m not letting you turn it down because you’re worried about what he thinks.’

   ‘He freaked out about the tattoos. If I let you cover me with paint and paper we might as well fuck right in front of him.’

   ‘So we don’t tell him. The showcase is in two weeks; he won’t be back by then. We’ll keep it between us.’

   ‘That’s as bad as if we _were_ fucking,’ Louis says desperately. ‘What if he finds out? He’ll write six songs about liars with silver tongues and open legs and his fanbase will rip me to pieces.’

   ‘You’re panicking,’ Zayn points out, trying to keep his voice low and soothing, although the thought of fifty teenage girls waving scissors and scythes with Harry’s dulcet voice spitting accusations in their ears makes him feel a little sick. ‘I told you, you always have me. You can’t let him keep your whole life, Lou.’

   ‘You don’t understand,’ Louis snaps. ‘You don’t know us. You don’t know him. I love him and I don’t want to hurt him, let alone for you.’

   It’s not a knife anymore, just a needle. Nothing Zayn hasn’t heard before; nothing that hasn’t already lodged between his ribs and rips him open a little more every single day. It still hurts, though. ‘Fine. Don’t do it, then. Stay in his stupid house until you die of darkness or disappear into his fucking songs. You may not want to hurt him, but I for one am damn sick of him hurting you. So if either you or me matter at all to you anymore, then do it. If not, we won’t talk about it anymore.’

   There’s a long silence, while they stare angrily at each other. They’ve always done this; always fought for each other’s well-being even at the expense of tough love. Louis used to get so angry when Zayn refused to go in for art competitions or turned down people asking him on dates; always told him _You’re so determined to be miserable that you won’t even let other people make you happy, do you know how fucking annoying that is?_ Zayn only agreed to go out with Liam in the first place to avoid another one of those rows, and he in turn would blow up in his friend’s face whenever he thought he was selling himself short. It didn’t happen much when they were kids – for the most part Louis was comfortably aware of his own self-worth and prospects, and it showed – but ever since Harry came into their lives it got more and more frequent, to the point that he’s expecting from experience Louis to simply turn on his heel and storm away, to return in ten minutes with a sulky expression but a silent plea to move past it.

   Then Louis sinks to his knees and puts his hands to his face.

   Zayn falls to the floor with him automatically, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close while he trembles. He puts his mouth to his ear, murmuring apologies and promising to let it go and that everything will be alright.

   ‘I _want_ to do it,’ Louis sobs. ‘I want to so much, Zayn, it’s what I always wanted, but…I’m no good anymore. I’m not vibrant; I’m not attractive; I’m not young –’

   ‘You’re twenty-one, you nutcase,’ Zayn tells him, fighting back his own tears. ‘You don’t look any different than you did and it’s not like you need a massive amount of energy for this. Do you know why I picked you?’

   ‘Because we’re friends,’ Louis sniffs. ‘Although I don’t know why you keep me around; I’m useless and boring and pathetic –’

   ‘Because,’ Zayn interrupts firmly, ‘you’re beautiful. And I’ve seen you hold an audience so I know you can do it now.’ He kisses his forehead softly. ‘Now will you stop feeling sorry for yourself so we can plan out what the hell I’m going to do with you?’

   Louis splutters into his sleeves. ‘You sound like fucking Harry.’ He puts on his husband’s slow deep voice, his accentuation almost cruel in its accuracy. _‘What are we going to do with you, love, why do I always come home to you laying around? Couldn’t we find you a hobby, like sewing or something?’_ He snorts, although the tears are still falling.

   Zayn rolls his eyes. Doesn’t Harry know anything about Louis by now? Why couldn’t he buy him a bloody football team, or suggest something he’d actually enjoy? If Zayn could give Louis anything in the world…but that’s not a train of thought he’s going to let himself follow so he just sits with Louis and rocks him until he’s calmed down again.

   And as he does, the ideas start coming again.

   He’s not quite sure Louis’s ready to hear them in the state that he’s in, so as soon as he can, he sends Liam a text to ask him for a favour and sends the both of them to the park to kick a ball around, since he thinks Louis could use the fresh air anyway. Neither of them object, and when he and Niall are alone he begins to outline his plans, and the other boy eagerly scribbles down everything he asks for. The list includes:

. Rolls of paper

. Concealer

. Ink

. Paint

. A mirror

. Louis

   Zayn knows he technically already has him (at least in the literal sense) but he writes it down anyway. Because if he wishes for it enough, maybe it will come true.

   Just before he leaves, Niall asks him if ‘that bloke with you was your boyfriend’. He shrugs it off, says he already has one, but he can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face like butter.

   If Niall notices, he doesn’t let on.

 

*

That night, while Louis sleeps and Zayn sketches out the progression of his piece in his Space, he gets a call from Harry. He steels himself before he picks up, biting back every judgement or shred of hatred he could sling at him. The last thing he wants to do right now is make the situation worse, so he keeps his tone civil, even friendly. ‘Hey Haz.’

   ‘Is he with you?’

   ‘Yeah, he’s here.’

   He hears a sharp exhale. ‘OK. I was worried when he didn’t pick up the phone. Could you put him on?’

   ‘He’s asleep.’

   ‘Could you wake him up?’

   ‘No,’ Zayn replies through gritted teeth. ‘He’s tired and he’s asleep. You could have called earlier.’

   ‘Did it ever occur to you that I might have been busy?’

   ‘He said you had a fight.’

   ‘Is he still upset about that?’

   ‘You don’t think we should talk about the tattoos?’

   ‘I would have thought it was perfectly obvious how I felt about the tattoos, Zayn.’

   ‘I’ve done some of yours too.’

   ‘Yeah, ours don’t match.’

   ‘He’s my best friend. He needs to feel like he matters.’

   ‘He matters to _me._ Why isn’t that enough?’

   ‘Because you’re not the world, Harry. That’s what he wanted.’

   ‘And I suppose you’re enough to make up for that,’ he retorts bitingly.

   ‘No. But I split the difference. And you can’t force him to get your lyrics if he doesn’t want to.’

   ‘I wrote them _for_ him.’

   ‘That doesn’t mean they define him.’

   ‘I never said they did!’

   Zayn closes his eyes, sighs. Harry’s always been so defensive. It makes it very difficult to have a conversation with him. Plus there’s the fact that he’s always seemed to suspect that Zayn had/has a thing for Louis. ‘I know they mean a lot to you, but maybe he’s just tired of them being all people see when they look at him. Why would he intensify the comparison?’

   ‘And yet he’s happy to get your bloody paintings all over him.’

   ‘Because he thinks they’re pretty,’ Zayn lies. ‘Not because they have anything to do with him, or even us. It’s just aesthetic.’

   There’s a brief, thoughtful pause. ‘He said –’

   ‘You know how he is when he’s upset,’ Zayn says, silently apologising to his friend for being so dismissive. ‘He says stuff he doesn’t mean.’

   He knows that’s bullshit. If anything Louis’s lethally truthful when he gets mad. It’s when he’s in a good mood that he lies; tells you what you want to hear. If you piss him off the claws come out, twice as sharp because you deserve every mark they leave. Of course the tattoos mean something. They mean everything.

   ‘Mmm,’ Harry concedes, and Zayn almost laughs at how clueless he is. ‘OK, fine. Just. Tell him I called. And that I love him.’

   ‘I will.’

   ‘And…to think about the tattoo?’

   ‘I’m not pushing that on him, Harry.’

   ‘Whatever,’ he snaps, and then he hangs up.

   Two minutes later, Zayn gets a text from him. **_Sorry. V. tired, and I miss him. I forgot to say, tell him I miss him. Keep him safe xx_**

   As if he sensed it, Louis’s suddenly there in the doorway. ‘I heard you. He called, didn’t he?’

   Zayn ignores the question. ‘For Christ’s sake, Lou, I keep telling you, it’s not safe in here! Go and put the flannel on and then we’ll talk.’

   He grumbles, but he disappears briefly and comes back with the damp cloth over his face, dripping darkly into the collar of his flannel pyjamas. He sits down cross-legged beside Zayn, staring over his shoulder at the rough pencil drawings. ‘That’s me.’

   ‘Yep.’ Zayn loosens the mask a little so he doesn’t have to talk so loud. The smell of paint is powerful, but he’s fairly used to it by now. He’s always lightheaded around Louis anyway. ‘Sorry if I woke you.’

   ‘That’s OK.’ Louis rolls up his sleeve to scratch absentmindedly at the sky tattoo. ‘What did he want?’

   Zayn gently takes his hand away, softly tracing the birds to give him something else to focus on. ‘To say that he loves you and he misses you.’

   Louis’s eyes soften, sparkling a little. ‘I know he does. Why do I forget?’

   _Because he doesn’t show you enough._ Zayn suddenly can’t bear the sweetness and sadness in his friend’s face. He doesn’t mean to say it, but it slips out, six years of pain and envy and heartache in one sentence. ‘If I was allowed to love you, I’d never let you forget it.’

   Louis starts, as if he’s held a match to him. But he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t look at him either, just keeps staring into space like they used to look up at the sky. Just a little lower. ‘You’d get bored.’

   ‘Never.’ Gently, Zayn takes Louis’s chin in his hand and turns him, so he’s looking him in the eyes. He feels like the birds on his arm: never quite able to make it into the blue; always left behind. ‘I’d love you forever and ever.’ _I already have._

   There are definitely tears in Louis’s eyes now. But he doesn’t struggle when Zayn slowly pulls him closer, removing his own mask altogether. Not even when Zayn kisses his mouth through the cloth, cold and wet and unsatisfying, but nonetheless, a kiss. His lips even part. Zayn doesn’t push it though, withdrawing within a moment. The smell of the room is sharp and makes his head spin. Louis’s face blurs before his eyes as he starts to laugh weakly, already high on the chemicals and the fact that, Jesus Christ, he just kissed Louis Tomlinson, Harry Styles’ husband.

   He doesn’t remember passing out, but when he wakes up he’s back in the bed. Louis’s sitting up, staring at him, shadowy in the light of the single bedside lamp.

   Zayn props himself up on an elbow, feeling himself go red. ‘Hey.’

   ‘Hey,’ Louis murmurs. He twists the sheets in his right hand, kneading them like dough. ‘You kissed me.’

   _You kissed me back. ‘_ Yeah. Sorry.’

   He shakes his head slightly. ‘No, I…I didn’t know.’

   Zayn raises his eyebrows, as much in disbelief as surprise. ‘Are you serious?’

   ‘Shut up.’ Louis slaps him gently. ‘I…I know you _did,_ before, but…why? Why now? Why…still?’

   ‘Are you serious?’ Zayn repeats, because what else can he say? ‘Because you’re the fucking sky, Lou.’

   Louis screws his face up, burying it in his knees. ‘You chose the grass.’

   ‘Because I lost the sky.’

   ‘You said yourself, the sky never leaves.’

   ‘OK, this is getting too confusing,’ Zayn says firmly, sitting up properly. ‘I don’t care if you’re the sky or the grass or whatever. You’re Louis Tomlinson, and I’m in love with you. Is that clear enough for you?’

   ‘Fuck you,’ Louis suddenly spits, and then he scrambles out of the bed and into the bathroom, slamming and locking the door.

   Within a minute it opens again and he’s standing there, framed by the bright white light of the bare bulbs, shirtless, like an angel bathed in a blinding glow. Zayn hasn’t seen him shirtless since he gave him that tattoo, he realises now, the watercolour lion cub whose body is dissolving into golden butterflies and whose eyes are glass-green. ‘Tell me what this is, then,’ Louis demands, jabbing himself in the centre of his chest, where the cub opens his mouth in a sleepy yawn. ‘Me, Harry, or you?’

   ‘Louis, this is –’

   _‘WHO THE FUCK DID YOU DRAW ON ME?’_

‘Christ, Lou…’ Zayn’s never seen him this angry. And he can’t remember the last time he saw him this alive. He’s blazing, like something’s set him on fire from the inside, the way he used to look all the time: unquenchable; unstoppable; unapologetic. The tiger spanning Zayn’s own chest lies dormant, its blue eyes closed as it melts into a galaxy of stars that take up nearly the entirety of his torso. He designed it, but that one he didn’t administer himself, leaving it to a professional. Louis let him draw the lion on him, though, even when he offered otherwise. He said he didn’t want anyone else making a mark on him.

   Now Zayn’s scared he’s going to tear his skin away if he doesn’t give him the answer he wants. ‘It’s you, mate, of course it is –’

   ‘It’s the same colour as your skin and it’s got Harry’s fucking eyes!’

   ‘The butterflies are you,’ Zayn improvises randomly, killing himself inside for picking those colours, back when he thought Harry was the perfect match for his friend and a subtle shade of himself would go unnoticed. ‘You’re freeing yourself from us; from belonging to anybody else.’

   ‘You are so full of shit,’ Louis snaps. ‘Why the fuck didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me before I believed Harry when he said I’d never find anybody else?’

   Zayn’s brain short-circuits. ‘He said _what?’_

   ‘When I went down to break up with him, how the fuck did you think he talked me into marrying him? He’d destroyed my career prospects and ruined me for anybody else. Not his sugar-coated words, but close enough. _Fuck.’_ Face contorted, he slams his hand into the door frame, not hard enough to injure, but definitely to hurt. ‘I could have been with you.’ Something between a laugh and a sob slips out of his mouth. ‘I could have been with you,’ he repeats croakily, a dizzy, giddy look in his eyes. He looks drunk on sheer shock and memory; lost potential; what might have been.

   It’s how Zayn feels all the time. He’s used to it, but he’s not used to this: this swelling bubble of hope in his chest. ‘You…you still can.’

   Louis shakes his head, hitting the door again. When he turns back, there are tears in his eyes. ‘I need to go home.’

   ‘You’re at home.’

   _‘My_ home. Where I live. With my husband.’ He blinks hard. ‘I love him, you know I do. I’d never…’ His voice breaks. ‘I’d never.’

   ‘I’m sorry,’ Zayn whispers, terrified inside that he’s screwed everything up; that this is the end. ‘Don’t go. I won’t do anything, I swear. I don’t want you to be alone.’

   ‘I’m not alone,’ Louis says. His eyes have gone scarily blank. ‘I have him. I have his music.’

   Zayn reaches out. ‘Lou –’

   ‘Don’t touch me!’

   Zayn’s almost crying too. ‘Lou, he shouldn’t have said that to you. It’s not true. You’re the best thing –’

   ‘Stop it.’

   ‘If I could –’

   _‘Stop.’_

   ‘Please stay with me. Please just let me look after you.’

   Louis stares at him, trembling, his eyes huge and wet in his pale, drawn face. Zayn feels a sharp pain in his chest as a sudden image of his friend when he was eighteen hits him in the heart: shining and happy and boundless and free. He didn’t need looking after then.

   Had he always loved him back? Surely not: he would have said. Unless Zayn was the one thing he hadn’t been sure of; the one thing he’d thought would be worth the wait.

   What made him give up?

   ‘OK,’ Louis croaks abruptly. ‘OK. I’ll stay. But –’

   ‘I won’t touch you,’ Zayn promises, the pain easing a little as relief washes over him.

   But Louis shakes his head, his mouth tight. ‘No. I…want you to. I want to know what it would have been like.’ A tear falls down his face, and he blinks hard. ‘Show me? Please?’

   Zayn hesitates. ‘I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Lou.’

   ‘Please,’ Louis says, his voice silvery and dry, like leaves. He steps closer, arms apart, as if he’s presenting himself, in all his fucked-up stolen beauty. ‘I’ll do anything you want.’

   ‘I don’t _want_ you to do anything I want,’ Zayn snaps, brittle and scared for an entirely different reason now. ‘What do _you_ want, Lou?’

   ‘You,’ Louis murmurs, and then he’s on the bed and crawling towards him, until he’s straddling his stomach and pressing their mouths together, messy and dirty, licking at Zayn’s lips until he parts them, giving himself up to Louis’s need.

   ‘I love you so much,’ he breathes, because Louis has to know that this is the reason he’s letting it happen. He has to know that this isn’t for Zayn’s sake.

   ‘You’re so fucking beautiful,’ he bites back, and then he literally sinks his teeth into Zayn’s tongue, as if to shut him up.

   Zayn’s not having any. ‘I love you. I’ve loved you for five years. When you chose Harry, I thought I’d never be happy again.’

   ‘I didn’t _choose_ Harry,’ Louis says angrily, even as he fumbles with the zip of Zayn’s faded jeans. ‘He wrote me into his story. You didn’t.’

   ‘You’re not passive in this,’ Zayn reminds him firmly, watching as if in a dream as Louis palms his dick through his boxers. ‘You were holding the pen.’

   ‘Why didn’t you just ask me out?’

   ‘I didn’t think you’d want me!’

   ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Louis yells in pure frustration. ‘You want to see how much I _didn’t want you?’_

   Then he’s kissing down Zayn’s inked chest, sucking lovebites into stars as he goes, licking at his collarbone like it’s made of sugar before he pulls down his boxers and sinks down on his cock, engulfing Zayn in heat so suddenly that he throws his head back and bangs it hard against the headboard.

   Louis sucks him off quickly, sloppily, a point to prove. It’s so not how Zayn thought it would be but it’s still incredible, even though it makes him want to cry all over again. ‘Lou…after this…we need to…talk.’

   ‘Oh shut up,’ Louis mumbles around his mouthful, before pulling off to add ‘And just so you know, _Harry_ fucks my mouth.’

   ‘Is that what you want?’

   ‘What do you fucking think?’

   ‘Fine.’ Zayn grabs a handful of Louis’s fine, slightly damp hair, and pulls him down again, thrusting up to meet him.

   Still, he keeps it slow and relatively gentle, and when he’s come he pulls Louis back up to kiss him before he’s even had time to swallow. It tastes salty and bitter, but it’s worth it for the way Louis looks at him when he draws back. ‘Does _Harry_ do that?’

   ‘No,’ Louis admits, after licking his lips thoughtfully. ‘He doesn’t.’

   ‘Good.’

   They lie in slightly awkward silence for a little while, Louis’s head on Zayn’s chest, sweaty and worn out.

   After a while, Louis sighs. ‘OK. We can go to sleep now.’

   ‘Hey, hold on.’ Zayn prods his collarbone gently. ‘What do you want?’

   ‘We just did what I want.’

   ‘No, we did what you thought I wanted. Which was great, don’t get me wrong, but now I’m going to make you feel good too. Alright?’

   Louis wriggles uncomfortably. ‘Harry –’

   ‘Lou, you just sucked me off, we’re long past worrying about other people. Think about yourself for once, OK?’

   Louis blushes deeply, and after a couple of deep breaths he mumbles. ‘Want you…to fuck me.’

   ‘Really?’

   ‘Mmm hmm.’

   ‘Promise?’

   _‘Yes.’_

   ‘OK, I will.’

   So Zayn lays Louis out on his back and fucks him, sweetly, slowly, kissing his hair and his forehead and his nose and his mouth and telling him he’s the sky, the stars and the sunshine, he’s the entire universe, and for the first time in forever Louis looks like he truly believes him.

 

*

They ride out (no pun intended) the next two weeks alternately locked in Zayn’s house and his allocated space in the gallery. They don’t spend all their time having sex. They work on Zayn’s piece together too, and by their opening night it’s perfected.

   Liam calls every day, and Zayn talks to him for an hour or so. He feels sick with guilt every time, but rationally he knows he can’t break off something this good when what he has with Louis is so fragile and temporary. Louis’s made it clear that when Harry comes back this is over. It will be their secret. It won’t even count.

   Zayn truly tries to believe that. He invites Liam to the opening night, and he sounds utterly over the moon.

   ‘He’s going to propose to you.’ Louis tells him after he’s hung up.

   ‘What makes you say that?’

   ‘It’s Liam. He’s romantic.’

   ‘Is that what you want?’

   Louis raises his eyebrows. ‘I don’t really think I should get a say in this, do you?’

   ‘Since I’m in love with you and it’s apparently not completely one-sided, you probably should get a say in it.’

   ‘I’m not going to ruin your life, Zayn.’ Louis stretches his arms out, observing the layout they’ve been working on these past few days. Normally by this time he’d be covered in paint, but people will begin arriving soon, and for the performance he has to start off completely pristine, in a pressed white shirt and fresh trousers, his hair newly washed and floppy, like silk. ‘Marry him. He’s a good person. You love him, right?’

   ‘I guess.’

   He smirks. ‘Loving the enthusiasm there, mate.’

   ‘I love you,’ Zayn says bluntly. ‘Anything I feel for Liam is just an echo of that. I learnt to love for you. Not him.’

   Louis doesn’t answer, bending his head so his fringe falls over his eyes. He looks so young like this, and so lost. It makes Zayn ache inside, so he steps forward and pulls him in for a quick, pressing kiss. Louis melts into it and Zayn holds him steady, wrapping his arms around him tight. He’s tiny, and trembling.

   ‘Everything will be OK,’ Zayn murmurs in his ear.

   He still doesn’t say anything, but when Zayn finally lets him go, he’s smiling.

   ‘You ready?’ Zayn asks.

  He nods.

   Zayn opens the doors to let their audience in. While they file into their seats (hastily arranged plastic chairs swiped from the café), bedecked in formal wear and jewellery, Louis stands in the middle of the room on the newspaper they spent all day shredding. At his feet are miscellaneous pots of paint, a hand mirror, a roll of paper and a pot of ink. Zayn signals to Niall to put on the music: _Breathe Me_ by Sia. At the sound of the breath she takes fifteen seconds in, Louis stiffens. Then, when the lyrics begin, he starts to unbutton his shirt.

   _Help, I have done it again…_

   He shrugs it off, and then slowly steps out of his trousers, leaving himself shirtless in only his briefs.

   _Hurt myself again today…_

   He stares out at the audience, then makes the sign of the cross over his forehead and chest. Then he holds his hands together and falls to his knees.

   _Be my friend, hold me, wrap me up…_

   He reaches for the tube of foundation and begins to spread it over his tattoos, at intervals holding his hidden mark out to the audience, as if to prove to them that he’s clean and pure and perfect; that he’ll be whatever they want him to be.

   _And breathe me…_

   He stands, holds his arms outstretched wide, tilts his head back to the ceiling.

   _Ouch, I have lost myself again._

   He stoops, reaches with his bare hands into the open tubs of paint, and when his palms are slick with colour he strokes psychedelic handprints across his skin.

   _Yeah, I think that I might break…_

   The colours are green and blue, and they smear the foundation but it doesn’t matter, as the paint works just as well to conceal his true identity. When his torso and arms and thighs are covered in it he runs his hands through his hair, and then runs them down his face. When he brings them away he is a wild thing, unrecognisable from before.

   _Unfold me…_

He’s crying, which wasn’t part of the plan, but Zayn thinks it probably works better this way, although his heart starts with worry because Louis can clearly barely see as he bends over again and begins to unroll the paper. The tears streak the paint on his face and make him look even stranger, but he manages to get the strip straight and then pour the ink on it, and then he lies down and rolls right across it, so when he stands up he’s striped with wet jet black that shimmers in the low light and makes him look like half a dream and half a nightmare.

   _I am small and needy…_

   He’s sobbing now, his shoulders shaking, but still he keeps going, reaching down once more to take the mirror and hold it up so he can see his face. But he barely glances into it before he casts it down, smashing it to pieces. Then he throws himself to his knees once more, and Zayn gasps with the others as his hands collide with the broken glass before he wraps his arms around himself and starts to rock slowly back and forth mumbling _‘To Jesus Christ I command my soul. Lord Jesus, retrieve my soul’_ over and over again until the music fades.

   The applause is uncertain as first, but as soon as the crowd find their footing they’re cheering wildly, and Zayn waits for Louis to stand up, take his bow, but he doesn’t move, just keeps kneeling there with his head bowed, hugging himself and trembling like a leaf.

   Soon enough, the audience gets the hint and files out. Zayn sees Liam look back, but he ducks before he can catch his eye, and then the room is empty and they’re alone again.

   ‘Lou?’ Zayn murmurs.

   Louis shakes his head. ‘I’m s-sorry I-I m-messed it up, I c-couldn’t stop th-thinking about…’

   ‘It’s OK, love.’ Not caring about his clothes, which he actually tried with tonight for the sake of the premiere, Zayn wraps his own arms around his tiny, tired friend. ‘It was beautiful. You were beautiful. It was supposed to be about Harry. You did amazingly.’

   ‘If he finds out –’

   ‘He won’t,’ Zayn promises. He takes Louis’s hands in his, and sees that they’re bleeding. ‘Come on love, let’s get you cleaned up.’

   But before he can stand, Louis pulls him down on top of him and kisses him like crashing waves, and they grind up against each other among the newspaper and paint and broken glass until they’re both coming, crying out each other’s names.

   Then they go to the bathroom and Zayn picks the pieces out of Louis’s hands and kisses them until his teeth are stained red and they laugh at each other’s paint-stained selves in the mirror although Louis can’t look at himself for too long without bursting into tears again, half hysteria and half pure sorrow, and then Zayn calls a taxi and wraps a towel around him and with one last kiss sends him out with some money so that he can go home and rest. Then, reluctantly, he gives his jacket a half-hearted dab with some cold water before stepping into the dining hall of the gallery to greet his admirers.

   The rest of the story may or may not be sad, depending on how it is told.

   Liam does propose that night, to raucous applause, and Zayn says yes, promising to buy a bigger house and move in with him just as soon as Harry returns to look after Louis.

   Harry comes home from his tour two days early and collects Louis from Zayn’s house in the dead of night. They have sex in the kitchen, breaking several glasses Zayn was given by his mother, and then they steal away back to their mansion. Louis sends Zayn a letter a week later: _Be happy. I’m happy. The sky is overrated xxx_

   So Zayn marries Liam in a quiet ceremony with their family and close friends, and they invite Harry and Louis but they don’t come, having retreated to Italy for a holiday to rekindle their relationship. They return with an olive-skinned baby and massive smiles, and they invite Zayn and Liam to the christening but Zayn sleeps in that morning and Liam decides not to wake him for reasons that he’ll never fully explain. They begin planning for children too, although Liam’s determined to take the surrogacy route, adamant that his kids carry his genes. Zayn doesn’t really care either way – doesn’t even care when Liam throws out his supply of weed and bans cigarettes from the house. He smokes in the back garden and sucks mints constantly to hide his weakness.

   Zayn’s commissioned to do more performance pieces, but he never quite hits the note his first one did, even when he repeats it with a different model. They don’t cry, or if they do he doesn’t believe in it. He returns to painting, rinsing the blue from every single one of his palettes to paint bloody skies and clouded lakes, determined never to hurt anybody again. They sell well, and soon Liam quits his job, eager to be a full time father.

   Harry quits too, a little while later, having wrung all the enjoyment he could from fame. He and Louis buy a few houses here and there – LA, Paris, London, Barcelona – and shut themselves away from the public eye with their fast-growing posse of kids. Every year or so they give someone an exclusive interview and a photoshoot with their babies’ faces blacked out, but other than that they keep the door to their life closed.

   To Zayn as well. He never sees them again. Louis writes from time to time, but he can’t bring himself to reply and so the letters are put away, more often than not unopened.

   He’s happy. He has learnt to love Liam, and he adores their children and their dog and their life.

   He’s OK with not being able to fly. He touched the sky once, and that’s a story he’ll hold in his heart until the day that he dies.

**Author's Note:**

> Please like/comment if you enjoyed it!  
> Thank you so much to everyone who already has! And extra special thanks to Buckye for this gorgeous piece of art (http://luceq.tumblr.com/post/122599208222/breathe-me) and bibzdidine for the lovely fic rec (http://nottooldforthisship.tumblr.com/post/130414502641/zouis-fic-when-i-turn-jet-black-and-you-show-off)  
> I'm so glad you all liked it! :D


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